


Cortado

by Ginplusanything



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Modern AU, i'm a slut for a modern au, inspired by real life coffee shop experience, now with bonus continuation, t for language, this became more than it was intended to be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-17 17:48:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9335741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginplusanything/pseuds/Ginplusanything
Summary: There are days that are catastrophic, days that you just want to go back to bed and hide from everything. And then there are days like these. Not only has Feyre been on her feet for pushing eleven hours now, serving coffee with the kind of smile big enough to rot your teeth, there is now the added prospect of being stuck in that same coffee shop for the foreseeable future.Oh, and then there’s the prick she’s stuck here with.





	1. Chapter 1

“Fucking bollocking shitsticks.”

There are days that are catastrophic, days that you just want to go back to bed and hide from everything. And then there are days like these. Not only has Feyre been on her feet for pushing eleven hours now, serving coffee with the kind of smile big enough to rot your teeth, there is now the added prospect of being stuck in that same coffee shop for the foreseeable future. 

“I hope you don’t kiss your mother with that mouth, Feyre darling.”

Oh, and then there’s the prick she’s stuck here with. 

The door, jammed shut by the kind of storm that’s rare in this city, refuses to budge, even as Feyre throws her weight against it. She stops, pressing her face to the glass, and watches her breath condense on the pane. Then she sinks to the floor, forehead still smashed against the glass. 

“Kindly shut the fuck up, Rhysand.”

\--

The worst thing is the boredom. Rhysand has started a game of flipping the take-away cups onto the syrup pumps. He’s actually getting pretty good at it. Feyre is still sat slumped against the glass doors, as if her willpower alone might budge them free, but she has turned to watch him land a particularly impressive toss, bouncing one cup off the caramel and onto the vanilla. I mean sure, there are worse places to be stuck. At least there’s seats. Some out of date cake. An unlimited supply of coffee from the machine they’re going to have to clean again anyway.

Finally heaving herself up, Feyre dumps her coat and bag at the door and crosses to the silver machine, twitching the the steam arm so that it hisses comfortingly. She pulls an espresso shot, sinks it, and turns to toss her empty espresso cup across the bar. Rhysand seems to hold his breath as it sails beautifully through the air, coming to rest delicately on top of the reduced-sugar hazelnut. 

“Alright, Nox, you’re on.”

He grins.

\--

She doesn’t realise she’s hungry until they’re toasting marshmallows on wooden stirrers over the sandwich grills. He has a smudge of sugar on his nose, and she reaches over without thinking about it and wipes it away, sticking the finger in her mouth to lick off the marshmallow before she considers the implications of her actions. He smirks at her, and she feels the blush heat her whole face and the skin of her neck. Or perhaps it’s the grills.

\--

"If I were a coffee, what would I be?"

The question is unexpected, and Feyre blinks at him before smirking. "You'd obviously be a long black. Tall and strong and smooth." She bats her eyelids at him exaggeratedly. When he replies, it's much more measured.

"You'd be a cortado. Sweeter because it's a corto shot instead of an espresso. Pretty and short but still strong enough to knock your socks off. Only a little bit bitter." He grins suddenly, and the unexpectedness makes her breath catch as she finds herself in its beaming light. 

\--

The cakes are good, but they’re better blended into pseudo-milkshakes. Hers is salted caramel cake and shortbread and milk and it’s the best thing she’s ever had. His is darker, with brownies and espresso, and he’s attacking it vigorously with a long-handled latte spoon. She can feel her fingers twitching with the caffeine and sugar, and he doesn’t seem much better. They swap cake smoothies, and she notices the smudge where her lips have been the second he puts it on his mouth, and she’s practically blushing at the intimacy of sharing drinks. He laughs, low and smooth, and returns her cup to her. 

\--

They draw a line after she smashes his cup-flip record of 25. Something about her aim is uncanny. She sinks into an armchair, chocolate muffin in hand, and he sits in the one immediately to her right. She is normally quiet, but something about their situation releases whatever has been holding her back. Above them, the lamps flicker with the lightning, threatening to give way. 

“Where was it you were in such a hurry to get to? This boyfriend?”

So far their relationship has been limited to passing mentions, flying comments over the busy shop. He’s a flirt, but she’s never risen to it like this. 

“I wasn’t in a hurry to get to him.”

She isn’t usually this honest, either.

“It’s Tamlin, right?”

She blinks at him, her legs shifting where they’re tucked up under her body. She might have mentioned that once, in the midst of a busy service. He seems to realise his mistake, and adds, “I know him. We’re on the same government course.”

She’d never made the connection between this Rhysand and the Rhys who irritates Tamlin in his seminars, but now that she knows, the resemblance is immediate. Her boyfriend hates him, and the afternoon following the Wednesday morning class is always unpleasant. From Tam’s grumblings, she’s ascertained that they’re in some kind of ideological standoff. 

“It is. What do you think of him?” Feyre probes.

It’s not a question she would ask in the bright lights of the morning shift. But the daylight is gone, and the way his gaze lingers on her makes her feel bold. Cheeks pink, she trails a finger through the velvety foam of the cappuccino he made for her. Dry, with an extra shot. He knows how she likes it. She can feel his eyes on her, but makes no attempt to meet them, focussing entirely on the way her finger distorts the chocolate dusting on the top of her coffee. Tamlin is going to be furious that she’s late, but her phone is dead and even if it wasn’t she might have turned it off to avoid this.

“Well, he’s certainly opinionated,” she can hear the way his eyebrow arches as he says it. He pauses, and her eyes flick up to see if he’s still watching her. He is. The sugar high must have worn off by now, but she can feel the way her fingers twitch restlessly. She stopped trying the doors hours ago, content to curl up in her armchair, picking apart the cake she stole from the display case. “Feyre– “

Above them, the lights flicker sharply and die with the storm. Feyre starts, dropping her cake and reaching for her companion before she fully realises what she’s done. He reaches for her too, in the dark, and a gentle hand clasps around her upper arm. Hers comes to rest on his forearm. It’s firmer than she might have expected, corded with muscles which are tense now. The generic coffee shop music that had been playing lowly in the background has gone, and the utter silence tells them that the coffee machine and fridges have also turned themselves off. 

Feyre can feel her fingers seem to shiver where they rest on his arm. She’s never liked the dark. Not like this, in a cold claustrophobic shop, with barely any windows. The place is almost pitch black, but something reflects off of Rhysand’s eyes when she meets them in the dark. His other hand comes to rest on her still moving one. 

“It’s alright, Feyre, the storm must have tripped something.” 

She nods in response before realising he probably can’t see her. She knows he’s right. She’s actually probably better at electronics than he is, but something about the sudden pitch darkness seems to have short-circuited something in her brain. His hand on her arm tugs, pulling her upright. “Let’s go and have a look, okay?” 

She seems to shiver back into herself and nods, sliding out from where his hand still holds her gently. “There’s a torch somewhere, right?”

The torch is found. The fuse is reset, and the lights flicker back on. Rhysand crosses immediately to his precious coffee machine, babbling words of comfort as he puts his arms around it until Feyre can’t help but laugh. She sees the smile he allows himself and knows he’s only done it to break the tension she still feels, but she’s grateful anyway. 

\--

They lie on the floor at four in the morning. Rhys has a pile of marshmallows beside him which he is systematically throwing up and catching in his mouth as they talk. Occasionally, he’ll toss one to her too, though at this point Feyre isn’t sure how much more sugar her body can handle. 

“I’m just saying, of course he favours capitalism. Why wouldn’t he? He comes from a place of privilege. His father owns so much. Of course he feels entitled to all of that. He’s never worked for anything in his life.”

Rhys blinks at her outburst. “And here I was, thinking you might have a bit more sympathy for the lad.”

She knows he’s playing devil’s advocate, that he agrees with her, but she shakes a head, taking a marshmallow from where it’s fallen on his chest. “He hasn’t ever had a job that wasn’t handed to him on a silver platter. He was bought into university. He doesn’t know anything but that life, but that doesn’t excuse him, and it certainly doesn’t excuse wanting to destroy something which has helped a lot of people. It doesn’t excuse him or his father letting people go hungry if they can’t make loan repayments. Just because he’s willing to sit idly by doesn’t mean I am. He’s going to run for office and he’s going to hurt a lot more people. I don’t want to be an enabler and I don’t want to be a trophy wife.”

He turns his face towards hers, neither of them seeming to realise that their noses almost touch when he does so. “What do you want, Feyre?”

“I want to help people. I want to stop people like him.”

He considers her for a moment. “That’s what I want, too.”

\--

They write an election manifesto on the back of napkins, giggling together as their plans become more and more outlandishly idealistic.

“A right to a free education.”

“A 30 hour work week.”

“A 24 hour work week.”

“Free pizza for all every weekend.”

“A national siesta.”

“Mandatory 2pm dance parties.”

“Mandatory 2am dance parties, too.”

“All political manifestos must be written at 4.36am”

“Stupid boyfriends aren’t allowed.”

She blinks at him at that one. His face has taken on an earnestness she hadn’t anticipated. 

“I mean it, Feyre. You’re a million times more than he deserves.” She shifts uncomfortably under his gaze. 

“It’s easy, isn’t it? We’ve been together since high school.”

His eyes are harder now. “Don’t you think you might deserve better than a high school boyfriend? Don’t you think you deserve better than easy?”

“Back off, Rhys.” His tone has sparked something in her, and she feels her arms cross defensively over her chest. He knows he’s crossed a line, but the challenge between them is undeniable.

“You at least need someone who doesn’t treat you like some kind of trophy wife,” he spits the words back at her. 

They seem to deflate her a little bit. Whatever spark he’s drawn out of her retreats just a fraction. She’s seen the ring. She knows Tam’s going to propose, and she’s never felt so trapped by anything in her whole life. On paper, he’s perfect – heir to a fortune 500 company, handsome in that sort of bland way, generous with his gifts. And she’s always had so little. They only even go to the same school because of her scholarships. And here she is, working 50 hours a week around her university courses just to make up what the scholarships don’t cover. And still. She’d rather that than let him pay her way, as he’s so often tried to do.

“Please, Rhysand, if you know someone, feel free to point him out.”

She realises the irony as soon as she says it, because she literally can’t think of anyone more eligible than the man sat cross legged in front of her. It isn’t even just his face, or his tall, leanly muscled body. His looks alone would be enough, but that isn’t even what’s most attractive about him. It’s the expressions on his face as he watches her earnestly. His quick tongue and sharp wit. He works harder than anyone she’s ever met. He’s kind and charming and single, and the way he watches her has always made her heart beat just a little bit faster. His smile twists now as she watches him, becomes rueful in a way that makes his dimples appear. They’re a quirk she’s always found attractive, turning his smile lopsided. 

His tone is much lower now, much rougher than usual after being up all night, “I’ll be here when you’re ready, Feyre.”

She locks herself in the bathroom for half an hour, afraid of what she might do otherwise. 

\--

When she returns he’s folded himself onto the one sofa in the little cafe. He’s tall. It can’t be that comfortable. She thinks he’s asleep but when she moves past to the armchair to curl up to sleep too, his hand reaches out to catch hers. She kneels down next to him, and can’t help but smile as he cracks an eye, sleep already half claiming his features, “C’mere, darling.”

It’s not the sort of request she can refuse. Instead of curling into the armchair she lets herself lie on the wide sofa next to him. She might have been content to stay there, but he apparently isn’t. He tucks her in close to his side, his expression already more peaceful than she thinks she’s ever seen it. There’s limbs everywhere, and his legs are already dangling off the end of the sofa. But when his chin comes to rest on the top of her head, Feyre thinks she might be the most comfortable she’s ever been. Judging by the way his heart has slowed, steady under her cheek, she thinks he might be too. 

\--

Feyre is woken by the sun as it rises, finally streaming through the cracks in the shuttered windows. She glances around at the shop, wincing at the destruction they have wrought. Rhys stirs after she does, his hair adorably imperfect and eyes glazed with sleep, and Feyre stares at him, noting the exact moment he seems to register where they are.

He’s so ruffled, his five o’clock shadow from yesterday truly stubble now, that she can’t help but blurt out his name. And then she does what she’s wanted to do since they became trapped in this tiny little shop and presses her lips to his, just the lightest of pressures. 

Unconsciously, his hand reaches up to the back of her head, long fingers tangling in her hair and pulling her down closer to him and the kiss is quickly heated, their mouths moving together. He tastes like marshmallows, and she’s pretty sure she does too. His other hand skims the skin of her arm, and she feels her skin prickle with the electricity of the contact. 

But it’s him that pulls away, however reluctantly, violet eyes now sharper than she’s ever seen them. Her hand rests on his cheek, thumb tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone under the stubble. 

He opens his mouth to say something, perhaps to tell her to leave him alone and never come near him again, and the outside door is forced open.

\--

Feyre starts, jumping away from the cradle of his arms, hand flying to the hair that he’s mussed, biting her swollen lower lip. He’s still staring at her, but Feyre is focussed on the people at the door. Their manager, Amren, is in front. Though tiny, she seems to have been able to force the door open single-handedly. She’s flanked by a couple of the other baristas, there for the morning shift. Two of Rhys’ equally handsome friends, who are grinning stupidly at the pair of them now. And behind them... Tamlin.

The concern on his face is short lived, turning quickly to fury as he takes in the scene – Rhys, emerging from the sofa they’ve obviously slept on. Tam’s words are sharp, barbs directed at Rhys. “We’re going home, Feyre.”

Not are you alright? No concern at all, actually. For anything. Feyre feels, rather than sees, Rhys rise at her back.

“Tamlin. Nice to see you. Good of you to ask, we’re both fine,” Any vulnerability he might have let slip during the night is gone, replaced so quickly by the cold smoothness Rhys has perfected. Feyre feels his hand come to rest very gently on the small of her back, where she knows Tamlin can’t see. It’s reassurance, somehow. But she’s got a lot to deal with before she can do what she actually wants to.

She turns, looks up at his face. A shade of uncertainty passes over it as she looks at him now, even as her fingers brush ever so slightly against his, still hovering near her stomach. “I’m nearly ready. I just have to deal with something first.” And then she forces herself away, retrieving the bag she dumped by the doors all those hours ago. She passes her smirking colleagues, and Amren, who’s inspecting where the doors were jammed. “I’ll come back and help clean this up, Am, I promise.”

Amren waves her off, and Feyre knows that she’s already catalogued the damage and is far more concerned about her employees than anything else. At the door, Feyre lets herself glance back at Rhys, whose expression is, in a word, torn. “I’m nearly ready.” 

And then she lets herself be led away by Tamlin for the last time.


	2. Cafetiere

When Rhys next sees Feyre, she’s at the door of his brownstone apartment in the city. Shivering, drenched by a sudden onslaught of rain that’s some leftover from the storm from night before. She has a single bag slung over one shoulder. He stares at her. She blinks at him through eyelashes still hung with raindrops. 

“Can I come in?”

He starts, stepping aside to let her pass by. There’s a fire burning in the living room, and although she hesitates, he’s remembered himself enough to take the bag from her shoulder, dropping it by the door. He prods her gently in the direction of the chair he’s been sat in, by the fire, and she sits gratefully in it. He still hasn’t said anything to her, though the shock of her sudden, half-drowned appearance is slowly wearing off. He wants to ask her, to confirm exactly what he suspects has happened, but instead he disappears into the hallway, reappearing moments later with a towel that has been slung over the boiler. It’s warm and soft, and she puts her face in it gratefully. 

He’s still silent, kneeling by her chair, watching her wring the water from her hair. She’s never been here before, and the suddenness of her proximity is a shock to his system. Not that it should be, after last night. 

“He kicked you out?”

“I left.”

There’s a lot more fire than he might have expected in her voice, venom seething under the surface. He stares at her a moment longer, and then he nods. Of course she did. 

He stands, aware of the ways her eyes follow him upright. “I’ll get you some warm clothes. Do you want a shower? A hot drink?” He can feel himself fussing, and his eyes dart to the doorframe where her bag of soaked things waits. “Did you walk here?”

She nods as she stands, “The car wasn’t mine.” Even now, soaked through and possibly homeless, she’s anything but diminutive. She seems to square her shoulders, “I’d kill for a hot shower. If you don’t mind.”

\--

The sound of the water pounding echoes through his flat. He tries not to focus on it, but he’s hyperaware of the implications. He doesn’t even know how she got here. He can’t remember ever having a conversation which might have involved his home address, but the relief that courses through him because he knows she’s here is undeniable. He hears the shower shut off, and clears his throat so that she hears him, “I left some clothes outside the door for you.”

He hears the door of the bathroom open and then close sharply. He focuses on the grinder in his hands, twisting it with perhaps a little more force than necessary, before tipping the coffee into the cafetiere he has waiting, focussing on the ways that the hot water turns a rich shade of brown and the strong aroma that seems to swirl around him rather than anything else that might be happening in this suddenly very small apartment. The ease between them from last night isn’t quite there, but it isn’t quite gone either. If anything, he just can’t believe she’s here, that when she needed somewhere to go, she came here. 

He hears her enter, and turns to glance at her entrance. Then turns back around again sharply. He lives alone, so all he’s been able to give her is a pair of his old pyjama bottoms, which are slung low on her hips, and an old vest top. The intimacy of her being in his clothes is a punch to the gut; it knocks the wind out of him. 

He has loved her for so long.

She crosses to where he’s stood with the coffee pot, pulling herself up to sit on the counter next to him. Her expression is serious, and he manages to collect himself so that his is, too.

“I made coffee,” he offers, lamely.

He watches as her eyes flick down to where his are on the coffee pot, and then back up to him. There’s the hint of a smile on her face, now, “A long black, I hope.”

“Feyre – “ he begins, but she cuts him off with the return of her serious expression. She can’t seem to look at him, focussing instead on her hands, which twist uncomfortably.

“Look, Rhys, in spite of me turning up here, I don’t expect anything from you. I hope you know that. I just panicked. I’ve called my sister. We aren’t really that close, but she’s said I can stay with her while I sort this all out. Maybe I’ll go home to my Father’s house. I just had to get out of his house. He tried to –“ the determined expression that has kept his eyes fixated on her slips just a fraction, “- tried to make me stay. But I couldn’t.”

Rhys’ hands finally fall away from his coffee, one of them stilling the fingers which are tapping out some sort of tattoo on the counter beside her, “Feyre, it’s fine. Will you look at me?”

She doesn’t, and he goes on anyway. “Look, this place is small but you can stay as long as you need. There’s always room in my bed for you, darling.” His attempt at humour has her eyes rolling, but it’s better than her nervousness. His fingers tighten around hers, begging her to look at him. “I’m glad you left him.”

She nods, and her eyes finally meet his. 

“Me too.”

\--

The routine they create together is more comfortable than he might have ever dared dream. She’s in the art program at school, so he rarely sees her there, but he’s thankful that this means she rarely has to see Tamlin, either. At work, they’re more in sync than ever. He sleeps on the sofa, despite her protestations, and she stays in his bed. She never gets around to going to stay with her sisters. The mornings they spend together, sunlit and dreamy with a pot of coffee, belong in some indie movie. They never kiss again, hardly touch at all, but the ease of her company feels like a blessing in itself. 

The only dark spot in this unexpected new reality is that Wednesday morning class. Tamlin seems to know that Feyre is staying with him, and the verbal barbs they throw at one another become considerably less politically relevant as the weeks pass. Still, in many ways it feels as though Rhys has already won. He still longs for Feyre, remembers how she felt as they slept curled up together that one night, and consoles himself with the image of her in his bed, in his pyjamas, in his life. 

His favourite times are when they lie on the floor and chatter at each other, tossing marshmallows back and forth.

His flat seems to expand. He finds a couple of drawers for her things, a shelf in the bathroom. His life swells to fit her into it.

\--

Her nightmares are frequent. He’s always been a light sleeper, and he often starts awake to her uncomfortable shifting. Sometimes he’ll make it in time, to run a gentle hand down her hair as she sleeps, soothing her out of the nightmare, reminding her that none of whatever she is so afraid of is real. Other times they are neither of them as lucky, and he will find her retching in the bathroom. He holds her hair, hands gentle on her back, and when she’s finished he lets her go, returning to curl in the centre of his bed. His heart breaks for whatever pain she can’t tell him about, but he lets her go. 

\--

It isn’t until a few months later that he begins to understand the cause of her nightmares, just as they seem to have eased their grip on her. They’re closing together in Amren’s café, and although Feyre makes a big show of testing the doors every time she comes in, both of them know that this will always be their safe space together. She has her back to the door, perfecting a florette on the top of someone’s flat white, but Rhys sees when Tamlin walks in. There’s only one other customer with the three of them, and Feyre lids his takeaway coffee, smiling as she hands it over and he disappears. And then she freezes, catching sight of the new addition to the room. Rhys, on the till, leans nonchalantly on it. Less nonchalant is the way he steps back ever so subtly to block the entrance to the bar, placing himself in the path Tamlin would have to take to get to Feyre physically. 

“Sorry, sir, we’re closing,” To Rhys’ surprise, it’s Feyre who speaks, distancing herself from Tamlin as much as she can in one cold sentence. 

Tamlin snarls, in a way Rhys has never witnessed another human being actually respond. Feyre’s polite smile is made of steel. Given the chance, Rhys would throw himself across the bar bodily, physically removing Tamlin from not only the store but the surrounding neighbourhood. Instead, he lets his smile become cruel. It matches Feyre’s.  
“Always a pleasure, Tamlin.”

Feyre’s ex-boyfriend doesn’t deign to acknowledge him, but Rhys knows the extent to which their nonchalance bothers him. His hands are fisted at his side, a vein twitching in his neck. 

“Feyre, you need to stop this. It’s time to come home.” It isn’t a request. Feyre’s smile loses its polished shine. 

The edges of Rhys’ vision are turning red, but the hand that rests on top of the till is still careless, part of whatever persona Tamlin expects from him, “Actually, Tammy, we’ve still got quite a bit of cleaning to do before we go.”

Tamlin turns his gaze, which has become nothing short of murderous, onto Rhys, “Stay out of this, Nox. This has nothing to do with you.”

“On the contrary,” Rhys adds. Any moment he can take Tamlin’s attention off of Feyre and onto himself is a good thing. “It has everything to do with me, doesn’t it?”

Tamlin bares his teeth. Casually, Rhys saunters around the bar, coming to lean against the front of it. Every move he makes is measured. “You heard her. We’re closing up, Tamlin. Time to go.”

The other man takes a step forward, as though he might square up to Rhys. Finally, Rhys feels his hands ball into fists, the anger that festers inside of him sizzling under his skin. 

But it’s Feyre that Tamlin really has to be afraid of. She straightens, eyes flashing. “Get out, Tamlin, before I call the police. I’m not fucking around.”

Tamlin’s eyes flicker between the two of them. His sneer is pronounced, “I hope the slut has at least opened her legs for you, although my sloppy leftovers—“ 

Rhys lunges.

\--

It’s only later, when he realises she’s been in the shower for forty-five minutes, that Rhys realises exactly how furious Feyre is over the encounter. Tentatively, he knocks on the door. There’s silence for a moment, and he hears the water being shut off, and then she appears, wrapped in a towel, hair wet. Her eyes are tinged red. The expression on her face is about as murderous as he anticipated, “I had it under control, Rhysand. You had no right to –“ 

He hardly ever lets himself touch her but does so now, his hands gripping her slick upper arms, “I know you did. But if you think I’m going to let him—“

“Shut up, Rhys.” She sounds wearier than before. “If you think I haven’t been called worse, you’re sorely mistaken. It’s just a fucking word. It wasn’t worth the trouble.”

He wants to argue, to tell her the ways he’d like to get his hands on Tamlin for daring to have ever come near her. That it would be absolutely no trouble at all to hospitalise Tamlin, let alone the singular blow he’d been able to actually land before Tamlin had run. They both know that charges will be pressed. Tamlin’s family is important. It’s fortunate that Rhys has never let on exactly how easy it will be for him to pay off anyone involved. A lot easier than his small apartment might otherwise let on. Especially given his ownership of the little café.

“Feyre –“

She cuts him off, removing his hands from where they still grip her arms. “I know you meant well. But I’m dealing with this. I don’t need you to fight my battles for me.”

Rhys feels himself sort of sag at that. The precious bubble they have been existing in seems to groan with the strain of everything he wants to say to her. 

“I know you haven’t told me everything. I know Tamlin affected you more than you’ve ever told me. It’s okay. I’m still waiting.” He leaves her like that, feels her eyes on the back of his neck but doesn’t turn back. The weight of the words he’s said to her time and time again might as well be tattooed all over his skin. _I’m still waiting._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell I hate dialogue? Why write realistically when everyone can think about everything for a paragraph instead? And why stay with one perspective when you can unexpectedly shift? These are the questions.
> 
>  
> 
> ALSO WHOOPS YOU THOUGHT THIS WOULD BE FLUFFY HERE HAVE SOME SLOW BURN ANGST INSTEAD
> 
> Part 3 is forthcoming.


	3. Ristretto

She feels like they’ve been doing an elaborate dance around one another for the past few months, and the suspense is killing her.

Feyre wakes every morning, in his bed, alone. Perhaps she imagines it, but she swears she can still smell him in the sheets. She sleeps on one side of the bed, never in the middle, on the off chance he might tire of the sofa. Sometimes, she imagines him climbing into bed with her. She’d never admit it, but what she misses most about Tamlin is having someone to sleep beside. The loneliness of sleeping alone in a double bed makes her stomach knot and twist and second guess everything that has brought her here. More often than Tamlin, though, it’s Rhys she longs for, remembering the way his arms felt around her that one golden night in the café. But he seems content on his sofa. 

His elaborate array of hair products has been set aside to allow for hers, but she always showers alone, listening to him move around the flat as she considers drowning herself rather than continue with this little façade. (Often, she thinks about what he would do if she left the door open for him to join her. Often, she ends up with the shower cold rather than hot.) She never locks the bathroom door, just in case he changes his mind. 

She never sees him until she joins him in the kitchen for breakfast. She reads the news, sneaking glances at him over her paper. He plays with his breakfast, waiting for her to be done with the paper so that he can read it afterwards, sneaking glances back. They both reach for the coffee at the same time. 

Once, he catches her in the kitchen, singing to an old record when she doesn’t think he’s home. She can’t sing at all, and he retreats before she can catch his gaze on him. He tucks the memory away, reaches for it when he can’t focus on anything else.

They separate, for university or for work. He texts her, some graffiti he thinks she might like or stupid puns that make her giggle. She messages back when she needs to swear violently at current affairs, or if she creates something she is proud of. He is always her first critic. She is always grateful. Even if whatever this is never progresses past here and now, she is grateful for the way they ebb and flow, back and forth. They reconvene at work or in the evenings. Sometimes they’ll meet and take the bus home together, even though he has a car. She knows he doesn’t use it anymore because they both enjoy the way they have to sit pressed close together on old bus seats. They argue heatedly over his Netflix. She goes to sleep in his room. He watches her go.

Alone.

\--

She goes home for the holidays, visiting with her sisters and her Father. She tells them very little about her new roommate, only that she’s no longer with Tamlin. The court date for that is fast approaching, but she doesn’t tell them about that, either. She sleeps in her childhood bedroom, and the sheets are soft with age, but she can’t seem to make herself at home. Not seeing him for a week is almost physically painful. They text a lot, but it doesn’t mitigate the way she longs to actually see him. Twice, she nearly goes to the coffee shop, in case he’s there, but she can’t quite bring herself to justify the hour’s drive into the city. So she lets herself glance occasionally at his facebook. As if that’s the same.

Though it’s nice to see her family, somehow the thought of having dinner with Rhys and his friends at their little apartment in the city is wholly more appealing. It’s a dangerous realisation.

\--

It’s after Christmas by the time she goes back to his, in that dead space before New Year. It’s a physical relief to see him, and she can’t help but wrap her arms around his neck, burying her face in the collar of his shirt. They’re hardly ever physical, but the way that he lifts her up, arms strong and fierce around her, makes her think that he just might have missed her as much as she has him. He’s made dinner for her, and she tells him stories about her sisters as they eat, her animated expressions and gestures making him laugh aloud more than once. In turn, he re-enacts the game of monopoly which almost led to the burning down of the little flat.

Dessert is a smoothie made from cake.

\--

The court date comes and goes. Though she isn’t technically involved, she goes for Rhys’ sake. It’s only him, at her side throughout, that keeps her breakfast in her stomach when she sees Tamlin. Rhys covers the fist she has made with her hand with his larger one, resting between them on the bench. He is found not culpable, his defence of provocation considered sound. Tamlin seethes, and it’s even more pronounced when she leaves with Rhys by her side, one of his hands placed lightly on her back. The case is dismissed, and Feyre finally lets herself breathe. 

The restraining order is filed the following week.

\--

They don’t have their New Year staff night until long after New Year, when their Christmas rush has died down. It’s mid-January, but mid-January still apparently requires them all to be wearing an assortment of paper crowns and tinsel tiaras. They start in the little café. Rhys seems to take up the whole room, his tiara askew, laughing with Azriel and Cassian as they prepare some bizarre cocktail using apple juice, whiskey and cinnamon syrup. Feyre sits with Amren and the assistant manager, Mor. Mor braids and unbraids Feyre’s hair as they sit curled up together on the sofa. They eat cake and they laugh as they boys use the milk steam arm to heat the apple juice, all of them pretty convinced this is the opposite of what it was intended for. There’s enough whiskey in the resulting concoction to set Feyre’s throat on fire, but they all grimace through it, the sudden liquid courage making everything just that little bit shinier. 

Feyre’s eyes meet Rhys’, and neither of them can help their smiles. Tonight, Feyre decides, is the night she _makes_ him stop waiting. 

\--

They go dancing, to Mor’s favourite place. Feyre’s never been here, but she knows immediately why they all like it so much. It’s early, and mid-January, so they almost have the place to themselves. They have an unspoken agreement that this is their New Year. It’s empty enough that Feyre sees the way Mor pulls Azriel towards her. Empty enough that they all see it. Rhys has seen it, too. Suddenly, finally, it feels like she’s the one that’s waiting for him.

Instead, she dances with Amren, with Cassian, and even Mor when she pries herself from Azriel, who has somewhat of a dazed expression on his face. They are unadulterated. Feyre has always hated this sort of thing, hated standing out, but Rhys’ gaze makes her feel bold. They scream when the clock strikes midnight, whooping together as though it’s still January first. Feyre finds herself in Rhys’ arms, _finally,_ and laughs giddily as he lifts her up. His hands on her waist, hers on his broad shoulders. There’s a second when she thinks he might kiss her. Something in the way his hands linger on her waist even after he puts her gently down. She bites her lip, and she sees this tip of his tongue sweep out to wet his own nervously. She’s immediately swept away by Cassian, with his pointed questions about Feyre’s sister. She thinks about smacking him, and somehow restrains herself.

They dance until the early hours, beg the owner to lock the doors and let them stay. 

\--

They’re still draped over the front steps as the January sun rises. Feyre is wrapped in Rhys’ jacket. She can still feel the music moving through her, ringing in her ears, making her bold as she sits between his legs, leaning back against his solid warmth as they all hold hands and pretend the sun is rising on the new year for them all. 

\--

They pile into a neighbouring café for breakfast, suffering the faux-hostility as staff members of a rival establishment. Loudly, Cassian proclaims that his flat white is too frothy and nearly gets them kicked out, but Feyre sees Rhys slip the other manager a couple of apologetic twenties along with the bill, and the whole thing is good-natured in any case. They lounge about, digesting their greasy bacon sandwiches. Mor sits in Azriel’s lap, licking her fingers. He stares at her like she’s the sun itself, even with sauce on her face. Feyre’s legs are draped across Rhys’ lap, and he grips her calf as they both silently claim the other, without either of them realising it. None of them seem to be willing to let the night end. 

Eventually, Azriel carries a half-asleep Mor home on his back. Cassian, who lives with him, follows, swinging Mor’s shoes about as they leave. Amren disappears too, going via the café to leave a handwritten note in the window that they’ll be closed today. Rhys and Feyre take the bus home, sat on the back row seat surrounded by commuters. She wears his jacket to cover the fact that she’s still in a dress that’s too short to be generally acceptable at this time in the morning. Her head comes to rest on his shoulder.

Feyre watches his arm as it braces on the pole to his left. His shirtsleeves have been rolled up at some point, baring the tanned skin of his forearm, and she can’t seem to look at anything but that. Their silence is companionable, neither of them seeming able to break the quiet that rests between them. They might as well be utterly alone.

Too soon, the bus reaches their stop and they jerk out of their individual reveries, darting to the front of the bus just as the driver is about to pull away. He rolls his eyes at them as they half-fall off the bus, laughing together. She can’t seem to stop smiling at him. The early sun reflects in her eyes. Her smile is so wide it breaks his heart, just a fraction. 

\--

In the hallway he stops, latching the door behind him. She waits just inside. She sees the way his eyes trail up her bare legs as he turns to face her, and for just a moment she thinks he might kiss her. His throat bobs.

Instead he smiles in a way that’s a little forced, tugging her forward and pressing a kiss to the top of her hair, “Happy New Year, darling.”

\--

She stares at herself in the bathroom mirror. All traces of her make up are gone now. She’s back in his pyjamas, which might as well be called hers now. She wonders what exactly it is she has to do.

\--

Across the hall he leans against the door of the living room, desperately trying to scrub away the image of her, hair askew and eye make-up smudged as she’d waited for him inside their flat. 

He hears a cough. It’s pointed. Later on, he’ll convince himself she might have been unwell, or sick, or that she might have needed him for something. Whatever it is he assumes in the moment, he knocks gently on the door of his former bedroom, and then opens the door.

\--

She smiles at him gently from the far side of the bed. The covers on the side he’s stood by are pushed away invitingly, “Come to bed, Rhys?”

He only stares at her. Then smiles, his bravado only a little strained by how much he wants her, “I thought you’d never ask, darling.”

She returns it. His eyes can’t look away from the sight of her in his bed, and for the life of him he can’t think why he’s slept on the sofa for so long, when this creature has been here, like this, waiting for him. 

“Will you turn out the light?” The simple intimacy of the statement has his mind reeling again. Outside it’s daylight, but the shutters are closed, and in here it might as well be midnight again. He does as she asks, until all he can see is the outline of her, illuminated in the soft glow from the window in the hallway. 

Still, he can’t make himself move.

“Rhys?” she sounds concerned now, in the dark, as if there’s any earthly possibility he might be able to refuse her, “Rhys… Are you going to make me wait?”

He smiles. And then he obliges her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then they kiss a lot.   
> Thanks for coming with me on this journey guys it's been wild. I've only started posting things on here in the last couple of days and the support is really a rush. All I do is refresh the page to see if anyone else has read it. I hope I have done you proud. 
> 
> Can you tell I only did a year of law school honestly guys I feel like even that little paragraph was a stretch for me. I didn't want to linger and have inaccuracies. No one wants to hear about Tamlin anyway though am I right?

**Author's Note:**

> Rhys' surname is just Nox in a modern setting in my head okay.


End file.
